02/13/00
What I've Wanted to Say
by Araxdelan
Rated- PG
Disclaimer- Love knows no laws, Chris.
Summary- Mulder lays his heart on the line.
Notes- A Valentine's story for LoneGungirl, with wishes of a happy birthday.


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	I can pin-point the exact moment when it happened.

	It had been three weeks since you had shown up on my doorstep with
information and a call for a truce. I remember in the first week I was wary
of your intentions, but your show of courage and commitment had quickly
convinced me that you were really on our side all along. So I had spent the
next two weeks getting to know you again. Enjoying your company, though you
probably couldn't tell from my behavior. I kept up our usual sparring, but
it had become a game to me.

	The transition had been made with such ease that I didn't even
notice it. Not until the end of the third week, during our raid of that
inconspicuous office building. We were on the way out, you taking point. It
was my rear position that allowed me a clear vision of you going down when
that bullet wizzed past me.

	When you fell, I was sure you were dead. It wasn't a logical
thought, but it hammered itself into my brain nonetheless. Only the rush of
another bullet cutting through the air next to my head could break me out
of my stupor. I took a moment to shoot down our attacker, and rushed to
your side.

	I looked down at your form, collapsed on the sidewalk, back shaking
as you hitched your breath in pain.

	Suddenly I realized you were the only thing that mattered. Not my
information, not bringing the old men down. You.

	I wanted to fill my life with you... only you.

	I turned you over, expecting to find blood pouring from your chest.
Expecting you to manage one last spasm of a breath and then die, leaving me
cold lips on which to press our first and last kiss.

	I had worked myself into quite a state by the time I saw your wound.
So it was a relief to find that the bullet had only grazed your stump. The
location of it made it painful enough for you to go down and stay down, but
it was non-fatal.

	I tore a large piece of my shirt off and managed to create a
make-shift bandage for you. I wrapped the binding around your arm, and
stroked your hair to soothe you when you became lost in pain as a result. I
let you sit as long as I could, but I was worried about more thugs lurking
around the corner, and had to pull you to your feet. Too soon, I'm afraid.
I dragged you most of the way to the car, and I don't think you remember
much else after that.

	Once there I settled you inside and raced for the First-Aid kit you
insist on bringing with us on every mission. I had complained about lugging
the thing around, but that night it became apparent why you always carry
enough supplies to stock a small hospital.

	I gave you the pain pills first, and a sip from my lukewarm bottled
water.  I gave you two of the green ones, as you insisted through painfully
gritted teeth. I don't know what they were, but you were out like a light.
I disinfected your wound, wrapped it in gauze,  and took off.

	Well... that's not entirely true. I spent a good three minutes
(probably more than we had to spare) staring at you. Touching you. You were
lying in that reclined seat, the pills making your sleep easy and
undisturbed, looking for all the world as if you were taking a nap. I had
yet to observe you in a peaceful state, and was fascinated by how soft and
pure you looked when you were asleep.

	The touching began when I decided to check your temperature. Your
forehead felt neither too hot nor too cold against the back of my hand. No,
it felt just right. Which is why my hand began traveling down your temple,
to you cheek. Your stubble bristled against my skin and I turned my hand so
my fingers could brush your chin. They climbed up over your bottom lip, to
your top, and down again, brushing the softness of your mouth.

	I wanted to kiss you then. But I also wanted you to be awake when
our lips first touched. So I settled for placing a peck on your right cheek
as you had done to me all those many months before.

	I ran my fingers through your hair, and then went about the task of
driving us home.

	When we finally arrived back at my apartment, I hesitated before
waking you up. You were so sweet, so perfect... but then I became worried
that I *wouldn't* be able to wake you up, because of the pills. I knew
that carrying you into the house would be impossible, so I turned and began
trying to gently shake you back into consciousness.

	It took you a few moments to fight your way back from the
dream-world of the drugs, but you did, and you managed to make your way up
the stairs, into the elevator, and into my apartment. You hung onto me the
whole time, and I enjoyed the warmth of your body pressed to mine.

	When we were finally inside you placidly allowed me to strip the
bloody clothes off your body. I tried not to look with a voyeur's eye, but
it was quite impossible not to notice the obvious; you are truly a work of
art.

	Carefully avoiding the bandage, I washed the blood from the rest of
your skin with a warm washcloth. I folded the covers down on my bed and you
fell onto it. I tucked them back up around you, and you managed lucidity
for a moment in order to smile and thank me. Through your pain you smiled
at me, your face lit up beautifully. It warmed me inside.

	I sat with you in the two minutes it took you to fall back asleep.
I took a chance and let myself gently pet the top of your head. I felt you
lean into the caress, but I'm not sure what it meant. Were you simply
seeking human warmth, or did you want comfort from me?

	I ended up falling asleep on the couch soon after, and didn't wake
until I heard you making a racket in the other room. I found you fumbling
around, looking for your clothes, and insisting that you would leave.
That's when the fight began. I don't know why you insisted on leaving, but
you did. And I was just as insistent that you get some rest and let your
arm heal. And that you do it where I could keep and eye on you. Lucky for
me, you were tired and injured. I won, and you went back to bed wearing a
scowl.

	Without your knowledge I took a week off from work, Which didn't
seem to sit well with you. I'm guessing you were more upset by the fact
that I wanted you to stay in bed for a week than the fact that I'd be there
taking care of you.

	And I took that job seriously. Meals in bed, changing the dressing
on your arm, carefully watching over you. You were very grateful about it.
As though no one had ever looked after you this way. I then realized that
no one ever had. And I was glad that I could be the first.

	I also relished the time we spent together. Playing cards, watching
TV, talking. Stuck together in a tiny apartment for a week drew us closer.

	I grew accustomed to once again sleeping on the couch, and you
grew used to stealing my bed, night after night. But I liked it best when
we'd fall asleep together, watching the TV in the bedroom. I remember the
first morning I woke up with you at my side. It felt so right that I had to
remind myself that I hadn't made my feelings known to you yet.

	I kept searching for the proper moment to do so, but failing. I
don't know how you feel, and that scares me. I'm afraid that if I do tell
you, you'll laugh in my face. Or punch me.

	So I kept my mouth shut that week, and when it was up I went back
to work. I was surprised that you stayed. More surprised that you stayed
even after you were well enough to take the bandage off, and again when you
could comfortably wear the prosthesis.

	I kept coming home every night and finding you still here. And when
we began to go out on our late night raids again and you came home with me
every time, I stopped wondering if I'd one day come home to an empty
apartment.

	I keep telling myself that you stay because it's a free place to
live. Because it's comfortable. Because we've fallen into a routine. But
another little part of me thinks it might be because you want to be around
me. Because you care about me, too, and you don't know how to say it
either. Because you're afraid I'll laugh at you. Or punch you.

	The big part of me hopes the little part is right.

	I go into work each morning like my life hasn't changed. But it did
change. In that moment I saw you fall to the ground I stopped lying to
myself. There was no reason to hate you anymore, and you managed to get
under my skin and into my heart so quickly I didn't even know it until
then. My life was hell when you called that truce, Alex. But you came and
lit it up with that fire you carry around inside you. You made my life
interesting again, made it worth living again. You helped me get answers.
And you made things so much fun. When I thought I had lost all of that, I
knew that I didn't want to live without it.

	Now you're the only part of my life that's enjoyable. That's
worthwhile. The only other thing I had was work and Scully. But I realize
now that the X-Files never got me anywhere. And I do care about Scully,
but.... she isn't you.

	I'm sick of going into work and pretending. It's futile. I spend
most of the day thinking about you, wishing I could run off with you. But
I don't know how you feel about me, and I can't give up everything else in
my life (as meager as it is) without knowing for sure that we have
something to build on.

	So, for the past few weeks I've been trying to get the courage to
tell you. And I thought today would be a good day for declarations of love.
I knew you would appreciate the tackiness. But I also knew that chocolates
and flowers were the wrong way to go, no matter how much you love Godiva's
raspberry truffles.

	I know that you appreciate the truth as much as I do. So I decided
to just lay it out, as clear and simple as I could. You know how I feel
now, as confusing as those feelings might be.

	If I haven't chickened out, you should be reading this over your
morning coffee. I figure that will give you plenty of time to figure out
what you're feeling, and what to do about it. Plenty of time to move out,
if you want.

	I'll be home at the regular time, if you still want to be here. You
can meet me at the door with a clenched fist. Or with laughter and this
letter, the funniest parts highlighted in yellow.

	Or, if God sees fit to smile down on me, with a kiss.

	Happy Valentine's Day, Alex.

- Fox